


Sweet Little Bird

by QueenKristoff



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenKristoff/pseuds/QueenKristoff
Summary: Lullaby Tesla is a 13 year old girl from District 5 who finds her world turned on its head after the reaping for the 68th hunger games.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

I awaken to the sound of my father's humming. I can hear him moving through our home, getting ready for another day of work at the power plants. My eyes are tired and I know it won't be long until I surrender, but still I try to stay up just a little longer. All I want is to figure out what song he's humming and then I'll gladly drift back to sleep.

The sun has barely risen into the sky but here in District 5 that means little. We are the source of power for Panem. The hours of the day are unimportant factors, especially when powering the Capitol; the city that never seems to sleep.

My ears pick at the rhythm emanating from my father's voice and I cling to it desperately. It's a familiar tune, if I could just place it. And then it hits me: this is the song he used to sing to my mother, back when she first learned she was pregnant with me. The one I was named after.

The door creaks and I lay back down, closing my eyes until I can barely see. "Lulla?"

He comes in and sits on the edge of my bed. The sudden pressure is comforting to me, and so I open my eyes and sit up.

My dad runs his hand through my black hair. I'm surprised it doesn't get caught in it, considering the wild curls have yet to be tamed. He always tells me that my hair reminds him of my mom, but if you asked my brother Verse, he'd tell you it was my voice.

My mother had one of the most beautiful voices I've ever heard. When she talked, or laughed, and especially when she sang, you couldn't help but get lost in her voice. It had a melody all of its own. The Peacekeepers, however, seemed to think it had a mind of its own. And so they executed her on a stage in front of our district. For singing songs that hinted at rebellion, songs that were only meant to bring hope to our people. But of course, hope is inflammatory. It can cause destruction for the Capitol. And so they dragged a blade across her throat in order to silence her.

As I look into my dad's eyes, I can't help but think back to a time when they were brighter. A time when my mother's laughter still echoed through the house. A time when my brother and I weren't of age yet to be entered into the Hunger Games. Now, his blue eyes have lost their light, and thick creases line his face. He used to be handsome, but now he just looks tired. Beat-down.

"Lullaby," he says, and takes my hand into his. I can see the tears welling up in his eyes, and I know that it's because the Reaping is tomorrow. It's the one thing my dad knows he can't protect his children from. The one thing that cripples him. "I want you to come straight home from school today. I'll have a surprise for you and Verse." He winks, and I can't help but giggle a little, seeing a piece of him come back to life.

"Ok. But you have to promise to sing me mom's song," I bargain. I'm well aware that this pains him. I can already see the hurt on his face that appears everytime he thinks about my mother. In an effort to lighten the mood, I quickly add, "I heard you humming it when I woke up. And it's my song, too, dad. Technically."

At this point, he knows better than to argue with me. At thirteen, I'm more mature than other kids my age. I guess I had to be, with what happened to my mom. And having to be strong for my dad. Our neighbor's kids mostly avoid me. They've been trained by their parents to ignore things that could bring trouble down on them. And my family is top on their list. It's never helped that our parents shunned tradition and named their children after music rather than anything electric or even nuclear-related. At school, I find my brother when I can. He's two years older than me so I don't see him around much. But when you're alone most of the time, a few seconds is equivalent to a few hours.

He clears his throat, and the words seem to tumble out of him. "Sweet little bird flies tree to tree. Rain will fall and ice will freeze. Sweet little bird flies high and free, no one around to clip her wings. No one stops to hear her sing, shots ring out and away she-," he cuts himself off as the door opens and Verse rushes into the room.

"I heard singing,' he grins and hurls himself onto the bed. He lands on my legs and I jab him with my elbow until he moves over. "Well, go on, dad."

Music was always a love of his and mom's, and they made sure to pass it down to us. In our blood, in our names, and in our lives. Since our mom died, dad rarely ever sings. We both know what a treat this is. It's weird to feel thankful toward the Reaping or the Hunger Games, but in a way, it brings us closer as a family.

So, my dad continues his song,

"Shots ring out and away she flees,  
Crying out for her family,  
Her feathers morph, red dripping,  
She flies low and shares their pain,  
Young and old, they lay slain,  
Sweet little bird vows never again,  
She beats her wings into a storm,  
And overtakes them one by one."

He still doesn't finish the whole song but gives us both a quick hug, claiming he's going to be late, and then grabs his coat and heads off to work. I hope he makes it on time, the peacekeepers aren't kind around here.

"Think he'll be okay tomorrow?" Verse asks me.

"Of course he will. Besides, it's not like the odds are against us." I fidget with the thin blanket covering me, suddenly worried about tomorrows Reaping. It's true what I said. The odds of me or Verse getting chosen are very slim compared to others. We've never needed the tesserae offered, so our names have never been entered more than mandated. I'm only entered three times. Verse is in there ten. Out of thousands, it's unlikely for our names to come out. But still . . . everyone is scared of being chosen. Or of their children being reaped. Because it means going into the Hunger Games. And for all but one, that means death.

In school, the mood is somber. Everyone is pre-occupied with their thoughts. Which I can safely assume are centered on the Reaping. And the lessons today do little to help. Normally, we learn about our district's trade; power. How to work in the power plant. Why powering our nation Panem is important. Taking field trips to the power plants. And then the occasional history lesson on the Dark Days. Which is all our instructors seem to drone on about today. But, of course, it is important for us to hear this, so that tomorrow, when we head down to the town square, we will be quiet and obedient. We will remember that these games are our fault.

Nearly a century ago, after Panem had risen from the wasteland of North America, we had been a united, thriving nation. Our thirteen districts co-existed peacefully with the Capitol, even as they demanded more from us with so little in return. But eventually, our people tired of this. With District 13 leading the rest, the districts rebelled against the Capitol. Just as quickly as it had started, it was defeated. The Capitol decimated District 13 and the remaining dsitricts were to be punished. With new electric fences around our perimeters, Peacekeepers silently watching our every move, and the annual Hunger Games. The games were our permanent reminder of what we had done, and how many innocent Capitol lives had been destroyed because of us. So every year, the district's children, between the ages of twelve to eighteen are taken, with a boy and girl reaped as tributes. Two from every district to fight to the death in these games. The last one alive wins.

Our district rarely wins. Usually the victor is someone from District 1, 2, or 4. We've scraped a few victors out. Now, they're rich and live hidden away in the victor's village. Usually, when I do happen to see one, they're too incapacitated with drink or morphling to notice their own surroundings.

As my last lesson ends, I hurry outside and wait for Verse. It's early May so the sun is warm on my skin. I close my eyes, tilting my head up so as to feel the rays more directly.

"You ready to go?" I spin around just as Verse gives me a playful push, and of course, I go tumbling onto the ground. The pavement is hard and I can feel it skid painfully across my elbow. Ignoring the burn, I leap up and kick his shin as forcefully as I can. Then, before he can catch me, I take off toward our home.

Laughing, I glance back and see that he's gaining on me, so I push myself harder. As my legs pump, I feel my heartbeat racing faster and faster. The adrenaline rush pushes me along even when my lungs gasp for air. I burst through our door, and continue on into the sitting room. Throwing my arms up, I spin around in circles, gleeful. This is the first time that Verse hasn't beaten me home.

But there he is, his dark brown hair matted against his forehead with sweat, panting. "Good job, little sis. But next time, you won't be so lucky." He collapses down on the threadbare sofa, wiping the sweat from his face.

"Luck had nothing to do with it and you know it. I'm getting faster . . . maybe even faster than you!" I stick out my tongue for good measure, and he chuckles. With no friends but each other, we've gotten closer through the years. We could almost pass for twins if it wasn't for the hair. Mine's black, while his is that deep brown. But we both have our father's impossibly bright blue eyes.

We wile away the time waiting for dad by practicing our knife work in the kitchen. Verse has been teaching me all kinds of knife tricks for about two years now. At first, it was just for fun. But as we got older, it seemed like it was more than that. Now, it's about knowing how to fight back. Though, I can't imagine when we'd ever have to fight with them. A bullet from a Peacekeeper would surely reach us faster than the point of a knife could get them. But still, I figure it's good practice.

"Lulla? Verse?" My dad clomps into the house, taking time to leave his shoes by the door. Verse yanks the knife from my hand and tosses it into a drawer with the others. "In here," he calls back.

Dad walks in, a large brown bag slung over his shoulders. He heaves it onto the table and it makes a loud thud. "How was school?" he asks.

"Oh," Verse rolls his eyes. "We got to hear all about how awful and violent people we are. And how grateful we should be that we are punished so leniently." He thrusts a hand into the cotton bag and pulls out a parcel of cake. "Whoa! For me?" He grins devilishly.

"For us," dad chuckles. Then he gets serious. "You have to be careful, Verse. We can't afford to talk like that."

"Why? Because the Capitol will hurt us? Haven't they already?"

Verse is right. We all know this. But he also knows we can't risk voicing our opinions aloud like this. I try to break the tension but only make it worse. "At least we're not starving." I poke my finger into the icing, and pop a dollop into my mouth. The taste is sweet on my tongue and the sugar perks me right up.

"Yeah, Lulla, but other people are starving. Other people who aren't as well off as us. Other people in different districts drop dead of hunger every day. Besides, look at us. We're penned in here like animals. We're killed if we get out of line. Is that any less hurtful?"

Dad's face shifts to beet-red and I know before he speaks that he's angrier than I've ever seen him. "I'm not going to hear you speak like that. You know what happened to your mother. And still, you want to carry on like this. It's pathetic. She gave her life, the least you could do is take care of it." He spins on his heels and is gone. I can hear his heavy footsteps stomping down the hall and then the slam of his bedroom door.

Verse and I stare at each other, open-mouthed. Neither of us know what to say. What was meant to be a loving night between the three of us has turned into a mess that not one of us can sort out. I want to say something to cheer Verse up but nothing comes to mind. Finally, he says goodnight and disappears to his room, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

With my appetite gone, I merely pick at the cake before I get up from the table. I blow out the flickering candle and head to my room. There, I collapse into my bed and hope that sleep will come.

The sun filters in through the spotted window, and I slowly open my heavy eyes. At first, I feel a small bit of happiness, that I don't have school today. But then the uneasiness fills me as I remember the Reaping. Then even more so as I recall my fathers anger last night.

Quietly, I slip out of bed and into the floral dress I set out days ago. My mom made it for me the last birthday we celebrated together. I had to let out the waist some and make some more room in the chest but it still looks nice enough.

I make my way down the hall to the kitchen where I find both Verse and my father sitting at the kitchen table. They certainly look more relaxed than last night so I make myself comfortable. As I dig into the leftover cake, my dad says, "You look lovely in that dress, Lulla."

"Thank you," I say, realizing the dress is just another reminder of my mom to him. I sigh inwardly and chug my water.

Verse doesn't eat much and gives our father a stiff goodbye as we head off to the square together. We don't usually make a point of walking there with our dad because the parents are placed in the back, farther away from the stage where the Reaping happens.

I nudge Verse gently and whisper to him, "Maybe you could have apologized."

He glares at me and under the heat of those blue eyes, I can't help but feel like a child. One who has just gotten caught stealing something precious.

"I'm not apologizing for saying what everyone else is too scared to."

I stay silent the rest of the walk up but as we reach the square and the Peacekeepers march forward to guide us to our designated age groups, Verse reaches out and envelopes me in a hug. I wiggle, slightly uncomfortable in his tight grasp, but give in. "Good luck," he says. The Peacekeeper takes him by the arm and leads him off to the other fifteen-year-olds. I nod, fearing my voice may crack if I try to speak, and head off to my section. The Justice Building looms ahead of me. The banners of Panem hang from it, looking just as weathered as the crowd that surrounds it.

As I stand there, the sun beating on the back of my neck, I can't help but look around. Two of us will be reaped. Two of us are probably going to die. And then I'm blinking back the tears that threaten to emmerge as I wonder who we'll be saying goodbye to.

One by one, the seats on the stage fill with the mayor, past victors, and our districts escort; Quinn Mirage. She's sporting ridiculously long, bloodred curls this year. The mayor steps up to the podim and recites the standard speech about the history of the games. He then reads our list of victors, which only contains three, and introduces Quinn Mirage. As she he struts up to the podium and takes hold of the microphone, I can't help but wince. The Capitol accents have always bothered me, particularly Quinns. I don't know if it's how all her sentences sound like she's asking a question or if it's how she seems to pause after nearly every syllable . . . but her accent is the worst of them all. She starts with the escort signature greeting, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Then she raves on for a bit about the games and how sure she is that this year will be just as exciting as the last. I roll my eyes and stand on my tip-toes, searching the crowd, trying to spot my brother.

In fact, I'm so intent on finding him that I don't hear the name called for the female tribute. But then I hear Quinn repeat it. I see her waving the small slip of paper in the air above her head. I stand there in shock as she repeats it one more time.

Lullaby Tesla.


	2. Chapter 2

I can feel my entire body shaking. I swivel my head right and left, silently pleading for somebody to do something. But to do what? I know no one will volunteer to take my place. I am already a pariah. This is probably best for my sake, along with theirs.

I shuffle forward, taking smaller and smaller steps as the stage grows closer. I ball my hands into fists as I walk but that only makes my trembling more evident. Instead, I smooth down the front of my dress. I climb the steps carefully up onto the stage, praying that I don't trip or fall while I am on camera. Quinn scurries over to me, taking my arm and dragging me over to the proper spot. Her nails are like talons digging into my arm. I try to shrug her off but unfortunately she has an iron grip.

She crosses back across the stage to dig around in the ball of boys names. I stand there, unsure where to look. Scared of what I may see. When I do glance up, the first thing I notice is my dad standing in the back. Even from here, I can see the tears streaming down his face. I have to force myself to look away before I crack.

Quinn makes a big show of reaching into the ball and mixing the names up until she's satisfied. Then she plucks one out with her painted red nails and reads it to the audience.

In her heavily accented voice, she calls, "Verse Tesla."

I whip around to look at her because in that moment, I don't believe her. She must have read the wrong name. I must have heard her wrong. Because it cannot possibly be my brothers name that was just called. But there he is. Walking stiffly up to the stage. He's taking the news much better than I am at least. His face is blank of any emotion, he's completely stoic. When I see my own face projected on the screens, I make a mental note to calm down. My face is too pale. My eyes too red. I slowly exhale. I force myself to remember that this is just a game to the people of the Capitol. I have to be what they want me to be. But as I'm telling myself this, the cold realization hits me. One of us has to die.

Quinn is suddenly between me and Verse, congratulating us, telling us to shake hands. We turn toward each other and just for a second, our eyes meet. Verse's hand seems three times larger than mine now and I nearly shrink away. In reassurance, he squeezes my hand gently and then turns back toward the audience.

"You're both Teslas? Are you siblings?" Quinn questions us. She seems overly excited as if he might burst into confetti.  
I stare at her unable to speak. Verse is the one who answers. "Yes," he says, in almost a whisper.

"Oh, how lucky for the Capitol! Didn't I say this would be an incredible show? We've never had siblings in the same game before! Your father must be so proud to have two chances of the family having a victor!"

Our mayor takes over the podium now and goes over the Treaty of Treason. I can't find my dad in the crowd anymore. I don't where he is or if he's okay. A Peacekeeper rounds me and Verse up and unceremoniously shoves us into different rooms. We're supposed to say goodbye here to our family and friends.

The door bursts open and my dad comes rushing in. His face is wet with tears. He races toward me and picks me up in his arms. Suddenly, I'm his little girl again and I can feel my own hot tears spilling out onto his shirt.

"Dad, what am I going to do?" I cry heavily. I no longer care if the cameras are broadcasting me as a devastated, sobbing mess. In fact, it pleases me. Let them see what they are doing to me and my family.

I feel his hands move from my back to my shoulders. He takes hold of me and gives me the only advice he can: "Stop crying. Keep out of the way. Do whatever you have to in order to stay alive."

I wipe the wetness from my face and nod. I know that he's right. No one has ever won these games by being a sniveling mess. Then again, no one else has ever been pitted against their family.

This makes me tear up all over again. I fight hard to keep myself calm. "What about Verse?" I spit the words out. I know this makes me sound hostile, frightening even, but it's all I can manage without breaking down again.

"I'll tell him the same. Oh, Lullaby, I . . . I can't," my dad trails off. The Peacekeepers are back and I know that our time together is done. We share one last warm hug. I inhale the scent of him, trying desperately to memorize it. Cleaner, chemicals, and just a hint of sweetness from the cake we finished this morning.

And then he's gone.

No one else comes to bade me goodbye. Or to wish me luck. Or to do any of the other things I suppose you use this time for. I wonder if Verse got any other visitors than dad. I push the thought away. I don't want to think of Verse. It's too painful.

Before I know it, I'm being whisked away into a car with Verse. Normally, I would be ecstatic to get a chance to ride in one of these. But the special moment is tainted with the reason why I'm in the car at all. We pull up soundlessly to the train station. Verse takes my hand and holds it in his. I'm grateful for his company. Reporters surround us and their cameras swoop in and out of our faces, making it difficult to see. We're finally ushered onto the train. I sigh, relaxing a little before I remember where I am and why.

"Oh, isn't this just fabulous?" Quinn Mirage appears out of nowhere and smiles at us expectantly.

I stare at her, unsure of whether or not I'm supposed to answer. Verse merely shrugs.

She places herself inbetween us and then leads us, with a hand on each of our shoulders, into the leisure compartment of the train.

All of it is sparkling, neat and organized. A man is straightening the pillows on the sofa. When he sees us enter he bows stiffly and then hurries out of the room. I don't mean to but I give a small sigh of relief. It's hard enough for me to breathe with Quinn next to me.

"Oh, I know exactly how you feel, dear", Quinn says to me. She gives me what I assume is her idea of a symphatetic face; though it comes off more like a childish pout. "Avoxes always give me chills. There's something . . . unsettling . . . about them." A silly-sounding squeak comes out of her mouth and I'm not sure what to say. Part of me wants to laugh but the other half wants to slap her across the face.

Avoxes have had their tongues cut out of their mouths as punishment for supposed treason against the Capitol. Though I doubt most of them are true criminals. Probably just innocent people who were either brave enough, or too naive to know better, that questioned those that govern us.

I decide to keep my mouth shut. I give Quinn a small smile and shrug my shoulders; hoping she'll assume I'm the shy, quiet type. Unfortunately, Verse decides to do the opposite.

"There's nothing unsettling about Avoxes," he snarls.

"Verse." My hand grips his arm and I yank him away from Quinn. "Sorry," I mumble as Verse glares at me reproachfully.

Quinn looks startled but she's back to business in no time. "You can relax here or in your bedrooms, and then the dining cart is just a few down. You each will get your own mentor. They should be with you shortly," she says. She smiles and then zips out of the room, probably to put some distance between her and Verse.

I sigh heavily and collapse onto the blue velvet sofa. I bury my face into my hands, suddenly exhausted. Verse lowers himself next to me.

"I don't understand why you're trying to be so nice to them," he says.

I lift my head from the safety of my hands and meet his gaze. His facial features are hardened and his eyes are dark but I can sense the confusion that lies behind them. "Because maybe not all of them deserve . . ." I trail off, shaking my head slightly as I search for the proper word. "Cruelty?" It comes out as a question instead of a statement but I seize it anyway. "Quinn doesn't seem as bad as I thought she would. Being an escort and all, she's almost . . . normal."

"Normal?" His face turns an even deeper shade of red, verging on purple. "Normal is what we are. What those Avoxes used to be before those monsters got them. None of them are normal."

My arms tingle. The sensation catches my attention and I glance down, noticing that goosebumps have spread across my skin. It's strange, feeling my body react in fear of my brother. Or maybe nervousness. Either way, they're both emotions I've never attributed to him.

And then adrenaline is rushing through me, taking hold of every part of me. I'm not sure whether it's anger, or what, but the sudden urge to defend myself, or worse, to defend the Capitol people bubbles up in me. It froths within me, growing, and then spills over.

"They're like kids. Like me . . . and you. But they don't know any better, right? They're raised to think this is life. It's like being brainwashed or something but from the minute you're born." I steal a quick peek at Verse and it seems like he might be cooling down. So I continue on, "If you had been born in the Capitol -"

"Doesn't matter how they grew up. They watch kids die on their TV screens. And they don't feel a damn thing." He collapses on the sofa.

For the moment, I'm rendered speechless. I can't think of anything to say because a small part of me knows that he's right. But there's another part that's confident that I'm right, too.

The compartment door slides open and two new people come through, making a beeline straight for us.

Quickly, I plop down next to Verse. He cranes his neck around to see who they are, and when he does, grunts "Hi.'

"Hello," they both say at slightly different times.

They sit across from us. And then it seems like the four of us are staring at each other for hours even though I know it's only been minutes. I'm desperate to think of something to say but nothing comes to mind and the silence is becoming so unbearable that I might punch myself just to break it.

Finally, I shatter it.

"I recognize you both."

"What? From your TV screen, girly?" The man laughs but it's not so much like laughter than it is barking. It's rough and weary, scratching the air as it leaves his mouth. His short hair could be graying but it's hard to tell because it's cut so short.

The woman next to him looks me over. She's tall but I swear, she's skinner than I am. She's not even that old, maybe in her late twenties.

"Yeah. Well, obviously. I mean, I hardly see you in town," I stammer.

And it's true, I don't. District 5 has only ever had 3 victors in the past 67 years. I figure that they're so rich now that they can order everything straight from the Capitol. But what do I know?

"We don't like going out so much. Being around people . . . brings back more memories than we care to remember," she tells us. "Aida Cable." She extends her hand toward me. I wipe the sweat off my palms and shake her hand. "I'll be your mentor," she adds.

"Lullaby Tesla," I say.

"As long as we're doing introductions, the name's Beaker Welson." His grubby hand shot out at Verse. "Your mentor." He snorts. "Clearly."

Verse shakes his hand gingerly and leans back in his seat. "Verse."

"Alright. Got that outta the way, huh? Well. Time to face facts. For all that blood you got between you, all that family goodness . . . time to heave ho with it." Beaker's face remains calm as he targets his steely gaze on Verse.

"Excuse me?" For the first time since his name was called, my brother looks shocked. Not empty. Not angry. But genuinely taken aback by what he's being told.

"There's no place for that in the arena," Aida joins in. Her voice is gentle, maybe meant to be kind, but it doesn't soften the blow.

"We're a team." Verse takes my hand in his.

Aida and Beaker both stare at us, blinking rapidly. Then Beaker loses himself in hysterics while Aida tries unsuccessfully to hide her smirk.

"That's admirable, kids." Beaker uses the back of his hand to wipe the tears off his face. "But there are only teams up until enough are dead. Then it's every tribute for themselves." He eyes us. "Think you could kill your sister?"

I feel myself blush. I don't look at my brother. I just wait to hear what he's going to say. Wait to hear what I'm hoping he'll say.

"No." Then he pauses. "It won't come to that."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

I look to our mentors to see if they understand what he means but Aida just looks pleased and Beaker only nods silently.

"What do you mean?" I repeat. I squeeze his hand in an attempt to catch his attention.

"Don't worry about it," he says.

"We've got a few days to train you for your the tribute parade, your interviews, and of course the most important bit, staying alive." Aida stands up. Beaker reluctantly follows her lead.

I leap up, pulling Verse with me.

Before this chat, I felt like I was stuck in this horrible situation with no escape. Of course, I still am. But it doesn't feel nearly as dark as it did before. With my brother by my side, maybe I can live to the end of this. At least long enough to see him win. Because if there's one thing I'm positive of, it's that my brother can beat every other tribute.

The hope is already burning within me.


End file.
